The ballade of an artist.
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Upon the bed I lay,

With a pen and a piece of paper,

Suffering to capture the trail of thoughts,

But my feelings slip away before I get them down on the paper.

...

A distant dim light gently falls upon me; Illuminating each word I write,

Yet, none of them are able to make my soul feel right,

My eyes keeps turning to see the moon, hoping to find an ounce of motivation,

But I suppose even the moon can't save me tonight.

...

Should I once again write about her?

Would it be better to make it rhyme?

To which altitude should I amplify?

I don't know...I'm probably just wasting my time.

...

Every sentence I've inked seems ugly,

No matter how hard I try,

I did thought it was beautiful, but then I read hers,

Everything fell apart, all I can do is cry.

...

I lay upon the bed,

Eleven elevens, they all hear my pleads

"Give me some sweet joy; give me some bitter pain."

Please...just give me a reason to write once again.

...
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A/N: yes, I'm suffering from a huge wave of self sabotaging.

Please help...